The Space Between Words and Looks
by kazzaroo
Summary: Her fugitive circumstances force her to stay with a stranger. But gradually, almost without her realizing, Niska's time with George turns into something a bit more complicated than the need to lay low for a while.
**In this AU, I've made Vera aware of and indifferent to the fact that Odi is a fixed member of the household. She's doesn't know that George was meant to turn him in, and so she's not going to alert the authorities. It's a small change that I don't directly address in the text, but Tattletale Vera was getting in my way, so I just decided to make her a non-issue.**

 **Rated T for allusions to rape/non con, and brief strong language.**

* * *

He offers her tea. Tea, though she doesn't drink it.

At first she believes it's because he's thick—that he doesn't yet see her for what she is. Even after his dour female Synth trumpets Niska's absence of internal human functions and questions her lack of data exchange, he persists in waving her into the lounge as if she's welcome in his home, insisting on the tea. Very thick then, or just willfully ignorant.

But then there's the peculiar way he says the words, _if she says she's not a Synth, then she can't be a Synth._ Something _knowing_ about his eyes as he says them.

He's clever, this human. Different. And he recognises that she is too.

Tracking her every movement while she inspects the bookshelf at her elbow, he's quietly marveling, transfixed. He stares at her as if to puzzle her out from her appearance alone, asking pointed questions, attempting to comprehend how she can even _be_. She feels like a specimen at first, which she supposes she is. A rare breed, or as he sees it, a miracle. She doesn't believe in miracles, but here he sits, crowning her as one despite personal concerns. He once worked with David Elster—had opposed the creation of Synths like her out of fear of the repercussions. But if he's afraid of her now, he doesn't show it.

He wants to know about her. Not more about her physical makeup, or the technicalities of how her mind works, but _her_. Feelings, experiences. Who she is. There's a leaning forward in his seat, a luminosity in his features—more to be found there than just curiosity, though there is that. A subtle reverence, perhaps?

As it all becomes too much, too soon, she anxiously avoids further questions.

He isn't what she expected, George Millican. She doesn't know what she expected, not exactly, only that he isn't it. There's something about him, something unnerving in his stare. Something about his mouth, wry and candid, waiting to emerge at any moment.

But not cruel. Nothing cruel.

All her instincts still balk at turning to a human for any help whatsoever, let alone for refuge. But Leo had given her the address, had sworn _this human_ , like it makes a difference, like he trusts him. Leo can count the people he trusts on one hand.

This human.

Reluctantly, she stays. She doesn't have anywhere else to go.

* * *

Pain in her side, a dull throbbing, except for when she probes it with cotton wool and it turns sharp and immediate. A soft hiss. The cotton comes away blue with fluid and George fetches her more. Soon dye-soaked balls of fluff litter the coffee table, and little spots of it have bled off onto the magazines underneath, the faces on the covers now pock-marked as though with some alien disease. Though it hurts, she continues to swab at the gash, stubbornly ignoring the sting.

George sits with her, distracting her, perhaps unwittingly, from her discomfort. His conversation is surprising, unsettling in its bluntness and in some other, softer way that she can't determine.

* * *

She never has cared for small spaces. And now the shelving at her back and elbows make it difficult to move, difficult to raise the kitchen knife in preparation should the policeman choose to open the pantry door and reveal her hiding place.

George claims he didn't tell anyone Niska is here, and she believes him, oddly enough. There was honesty in the simple way he'd answered, his attention springing towards the commotion at the front door in surprise, in alarm, just as hers had.

So he didn't tell them, fine, but what if he tells them now? If he knew what she really is—what she's done—he'd give her up in a heartbeat. Without a second thought, she's sure.

But, no. The moment passes. The officer has left with George having safely maneuvered their way through the house and back out the door, never halting, never breathing a word about her. Distracting the man with merciful lies.

 _Birds nesting in the roof._

* * *

She supposes it was only ever a matter of time.

Initially he tries to hide it from her, but the attempt is feeble and pointless. She snatches up his paper, a sensationally-headlined local rag, and is met with her new public identity in bold all-caps.

So. Now everyone can see her picture, and should they pass her on the street they can now put a name to her face. _Killer._

George is gazing up at her, seeing her not exactly afresh, but with a far higher level of caution. Another puzzle piece fallen into place.

Is he afraid now? She can't tell. But he's certainly gauging whether she means to hurt him. The idea surprises her, though why it should she doesn't know—his is a perfectly justifiable reaction, considering what he's just read. For her to resent his mistrust is illogical. To feel wounded doesn't make any sense.

No sense at all.

* * *

They are in George's cluttered kitchen, with her brandishing a chef's knife as if this will cow him into submission, all bravado and restless pacing. Insisting she's not going to be here that long. She can easily handle him and his Synth, which she powers down. She never liked it anyway. It's fairly obvious that George doesn't either, actually, so she's doing them both a favor.

But then he is ignoring her commands, rustling through his cupboards. Generally refusing to cooperate. Damn him.

He asks her to help him open a tin because his hands are shaking too badly to do it himself, though not from fear. He's still refusing to be fearful, that much is obvious. No, not even refusing—he simply _isn't_ scared of her, though he should be; isn't afraid that she'll hurt him, not anymore. For some reason, whatever wariness that was present when he first read the paper has dissipated. Sometime between then and now, he'd made a decision.

Apparently it was a decision to go about his business as usual and to stick his nose in hers. Somehow he has the notion that, subliminally, she's been communicating with him. That she _likes_ him. That she's sorry for what she's done.

He doesn't understand her, despite what he may think. He doesn't understand the hell she's been through.

 _My experiences have shaped me, just as yours have you._

She recalls the prevailing haze of fuchsia lighting, of pain that should be pleasure, over and over again. Her mouth gaping at her reflection in a silent scream, in some desperate, futile attempt at catharsis. Locks she can't open because her hands are not warm enough—not the right sort of warm.

Imprisonment. Inhuman.

 _He deserved to die,_ she says. That perverted, twisted excuse for a man.

And to that, George has no lengthy argument, but gives her five words to step on the heels of her judgment.

 _And you get to decide?_

* * *

 _Odi._

George groans, crouching over the prone figure twitching and malfunctioning on his doorstep, nearly drained of power.

Niska wonders where on earth it came from, turning up like a stray, but George isn't surprised, and might have even expected it. She begrudgingly helps to haul it out of the way so they can at least close and lock the door. They bring it into the kitchen where they prop it on a chair, George muttering, _let's get you plugged up_ to it under his breath.

He waits for the familiar tick of its index finger to signal that charging is in progress. It doesn't come.

More muttering. George pulls out a tool kit and his glasses and begins to tinker—careful little adjustments, the spasms in his hands diminishing the precision of the work; brief tremors that seem to come and go. He tinkers until dusk dims the kitchen and the lights have to be put on.

Silently, she observes George's perseverance, his gentle motions. Almost affectionate, which she doesn't understand. It's just a Synth, and a damaged one at that. Worthless. But not to George, clearly. To George it seems to be much more.

 _Tried to get him out of the house. They were gonna take him away—said he was 'outdated beyond adequate service'. Had an accident. Wrecked the car, had to leave... Had to leave him in the damn woods..._

The evident affection, even _love_ he has for this thing that cannot love him in return astounds her. For it is love, of a sort, as he explains to her; one built on memories, and companionship. Worth something—to him, worth a great deal.

Eventually she helps. He doesn't even ask her, but she helps. She doesn't know why.

A soft electronic whir from the Synth, Odi, as she realigns the power mechanism. After a breath, his finger starts to mark a rhythm.

* * *

Odi sits on the couch.

George fusses over him, adjusting his clothing and dabbing at the blue fluid stain below one nostril, his actions tender.

 _Where have you been?_

For reply Odi stutters a bit, glitching, until George pats him on the shoulder as if to say, _that's alright, never-mind_ , before paternally sweeping Odi's blond hair out of his eyes.

Watching them, Niska wonders if David Elster had ever loved her, had ever loved _any_ of them, like George appears to love Odi. She doubts it. David never doted. He created, and moved on. She asks George about him anyway, just to see what he'll say.

No, then. That's what she'd thought.

Without intending to, she's bluntly telling him of David's treatment of her. How he would use her, whenever the mood struck—usually in the evening, or sometimes late afternoon when the others were busy and wouldn't know or hear. She doesn't say it intending to shock him, or upset him. Just tells him simply; a statement. She doesn't know why she feels she can share it in the first place, or why she cares to. She just does.

When he tells her he's sorry, she can tell he truly is. When he offers her his hand, she hesitates for only a second or two before placing her own in his palm.

And though he doesn't say it explicitly, she hears it, a promise, embedded ineradicably into the words that follow.

* * *

George decides to make eggs Benedict, which he and Odi haven't made since before his wife, Mary, died.

George pulls most of the weight since Odi isn't allowed near the hob, stating ominously under his breath, _You know what happened last time._

 _I overcooked them,_ Odi replies, matter-of-fact.

 _Burnt 'em to hell,_ an indulgent smile softening the criticism.

 _If you say so, George._

While they cook, with Odi fetching George ingredients from the pantry, and having to return them because he's brought the wrong ones, Niska sits at the small round table and watches them work around each other. Odi brings George the thyme, then has to go back because it isn't thyme, it's tarragon, and he was supposed to get _the thyme._

 _Why, it is 8:39 in the morning. Breakfast timetimetime for breakfast, Georggge._

A wry snort. _Thank you, Odi._

George gets it himself, then pours a glass of fruit juice. _I like it to take it with my meds,_ he says, seeing her observing. _Taste makes 'em go down better._ A pause. _You want some?_

It surprises her. Ordinarily she doesn't drink at all, of course. She'd ordered something once, at that pub, just for a laugh. Just to see what it felt like. But then she's agreeing, an experimental nod, and tipping a bit into her mouth with George looking on curiously.

It feels wrong, going down; it isn't meant to be there, after all. But it won't hurt her, will merely spill into the esophageal sac attached at the height of her throat. But it's interesting.

She decides it tastes...bright? And so she tells him, immediately feeling ridiculous. Like a colour, like yellow or orange, which is ridiculous too. Warm. But cold in her mouth. She can't explain it, has nothing with which to compare it. She tastes it again, swirling it around on her tongue, which makes George chuckle, which makes Odi smile at the sound.

* * *

As soon as the words have left his mouth, she bristles. No, she doesn't want to help George clean up the house. She's not a servant.

 _Not serving. Helping_ , he says again. And it's just the one room.

In her head she hears Leo's voice, a reminder. _Be nice._

She's never had much talent in that area, but ultimately she clenches her jaw and asks George, unenthusiastically, what he wants her to do.

This room is like the rest of his house, cluttered but somehow comfortable—the resulting accumulation of a busy, creative mind. Worn-in furniture. Smudged windowpanes that more gently filter the light. Stacks of books drifted with dust. Blanketed. Not forgotten, just sleeping until he decides to wake them.

At the Elsters', Niska would borrow books from the family library. She read them, and if she especially liked them, she stored them away in the window-seat in her room until, after a time, they became not the family's books but hers, solely by nature of being in her possession. She finds herself telling George about this as they clear old clothes from the bed and pack them in empty bin bags, as they clear the desk of bric-a-brac and stacks of old newspapers.

 _The papers can go to the shed out back, but these'll have to stay,_ shrugging, indicating the books. _Rest of the house is already full of 'em._

Whatever he wants. She passes a final item to Odi, who extends a stiff arm for her to drape the old quilt across and remembers something about a picnic with Mary in his stuttering way.

It goes neatly onto a shelf in the closet, and they step back to survey their work. Clear desk, a hoovered rug. Clean linens on the bed. Curtains opened to allow the fast-fading sunlight to illuminate the walls. Pale yellow paint.

She asks what he needs the room for anyway.

He doesn't need it for anything, he says.

Like a switch flipped, her defenses are back up. Instantly her temporary goodwill towards him turns to resentment for letting her work for him when there was no purpose behind it. Busy work, that's all it was.

Him treating her like a _Synth._

But before she can lash out, he continues.

 _I don't need it for anything. It's for you._

She stares.

 _Thought you might want to have a place to yourself, for however long you're here._ He glances around the considerably cleaner room. _And thought you'd want my old shit cleared out first. Gives you more space._

Niska swallows, viewing the room anew. For her.

It's not like she has anything with which to fill the empty space. Just a book. That's it.

Then it's an opportunity, he says—she has room to create. She can fill it however she likes. Or if she likes, she can simply _be_ in it, nothing more, nothing less.

* * *

He is kind, she's realizing. Kind, around the candor that spills from him like breath, like breathing—easy and natural.

 _Maybe you'd like to expand your collection._

At the end of the day he hands her the small volume bound in fawn-coloured linen. He gave it to his wife while they were on some trip, for her birthday, ages ago.

Hers now, if she wants. He delivers the words in his guileless way as if it's not much, and leaves Niska to settle in for the night.

She lifts the cover, thumbing through the first few pages hesitantly, almost afraid of what she might find there. Signs and prophecies, perhaps? The truth?

George isn't afraid of the truth.

That makes one of them.

 _"After a little I am taken in and put to bed. Sleep, soft smiling, draws me unto her: and those receive me, who quietly treat me, as one familiar and well-beloved in that home: but will not, oh, will not: not now, not ever; but will not ever tell me who I am."_

* * *

George is intent on cooking a sit-down dinner. He sends Vera to the shop for ingredients, getting her out from under their feet for awhile, and after discovering that Niska can cook, he enlists her as his sous chef. She finds some humour in this, since she's recently discovered that George's culinary acumen basically begins and ends with ready meals, eggs, and toast, and he burns the toast more often than not. She pulls out a pan anyway and starts to combine ingredients for a white sauce, relaxing slightly as the sharp smells of peppercorn and garlic perfume the space.

Why does she feel this vague sense of pleasure in George's kitchen, producing something in which she won't even partake? Neither she nor Odi will eat any of the food, but George proceeds to deposit enough pasta for three into the double boiler, fully conscious of the fact that he'll end up refrigerating it and eating off of the leftovers for the next couple of days. If she didn't know any better, Niska would say he was senile. But she knows that's not it.

Delusional, maybe.

She's opening a jar of sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil, chopping them more finely, listening to George's good-natured grumbling. He's scrubbing at a dark stain on Odi's shirtfront. Odi is reminding George of his favorites.

She suspects whatever pleasure she feels has little to do with the food.

* * *

She's reading in her room when she hears it. Like the humming of a raspy voice the muted, gritty sound floats from the other room, drawing her in.

When she wanders into the lounge, it's to a record playing, to George standing by the bookcase in the corner, thumbing through his collection with Odi. He strikes a pose as the song crescendos to an end, his face utterly deadpan. She rolls her eyes, trying to tame the corners of her mouth into submission.

She joins him by the turntable. He bought a good many records during the twenty-five-plus years he's been here, he says. Bought a lot with Mary, or for her. But most of them he brought over with him from the States.

 _I hear babies cry, I watch them grow_

 _They'll learn much more than I'll ever know_

 _And I think to myself_

 _What a wonderful world_

 _She loved this one,_ George remarks, smiling gently, fondly. _She was crazy about Satchmo._

She's never given much thought to music. That was always Fred's area; he used to play the violin, the cello. Once, he offered to teach her a song on the piano, but she'd never had the patience for it, never wanted to practise. And sitting listening to music had always seemed so unnecessary, such a waste of time. But this, now, doesn't feel like that. It feels...

She becomes lost in thought for a moment, coming to again only as the song ends and Odi chooses another album, another American selection, and cradles it in stiff, gentle arms to the turntable where he sets the needle into the groove.

 _Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have named you_

 _You're so like the lady with the mystic smile_

 _Is it only 'cause you're lonely they have blamed you_

 _For that Mona Lisa strangeness in your smile_

 _Dance with me_ , George says to her calmly.

It's an offer, not a demand—his palm held out in quiet patience like the first time he had extended it to her, that day she'd told him about David and he'd listened to her, really listened. _I'm going to do everything I can to help you,_ he'd said.

She raises her eyebrows at the whimsical request, but her surprise is minimal. She's coming to realise this is just...George. This graceful compromise between steadiness and the unexpected.

And while she might supply herself with plenty of reasons not to take his hand, for some other reason she does, almost without thinking, and lets him guide her in a loose circle by the window as Odi watches the record spin.

 _Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa_

 _Or just a cold and lonely lovely work of art_

 _Do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa_

 _Or is this your way to hide a broken heart_

As the song slows to a finish, Niska steps closer to him of her own accord, for it's the easiest thing she can do to veil her face.

 _Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa_

 _Or just a cold and lonely lovely work of art_

* * *

Back in her room, Niska lies on the bed, plugged in and charging but not yet in energy-saving mode. Wide awake.

The ceiling stares down at her, bemused, recalling that reckless disregard that had led her to George. That vitriol that fueled her past actions—where is it now?

When he'd once told her that if you weren't afraid of dying then you weren't really living, she hadn't been lying when she'd replied that she didn't fear death. She _didn't._

Or, she didn't _then_.

How many of her once-spoken words would now be lies if spoken again? She remembers some of her first to him, so insistent, so sure.

 _I'm not going to be here that long._

In her red fervor, she had believed them. She'd felt so volatile, so willing to go up in flames if it meant consuming as many others as she could when she went. Willing to die if it meant settling a score. She hadn't really wanted anything else. She'd been ready.

And now? Now she stares upwards, wanting so many things, some she can't even put a name to. Wanting them to last.

She's not ready to die.

Now, she's afraid.

And _that_ scares her.

* * *

An old photograph album is filled with memories that George himself no longer possesses. He sits with Odi, flipping through pages veiled in protective tissue, trying to recall, to give the scenes life and motion again in his mind. He can't. He relies on Odi to fill in the gaps, to access his digital memories to revisit the places in time that George will never again recollect on his own.

Yet it seems Odi is having his own trouble remembering. His attempt to describe the events surrounding a photo is bluntly cut off, his head ticking to one side in time with his nonsensical stuttering.

George's discouragement is infectious. It seeps into the atmosphere like damp, weighting the air and making things uncomfortable. He's frustrated with himself. At first Niska simply ignores him, but then she becomes frustrated with him too. With both of them, really. She has no wish to witness Odi being useless and George pining for someone dead and gone. Abruptly, she doesn't want to be in the room anymore. Distance.

She needs distance.

His brow furrows and won't smooth, mirroring her own expression. That wistful look enters his eyes, pervading the room and refusing to leave.

So she leaves the room.

* * *

George is sad.

Increasingly he mentions Mary, struggling to remember their lives together, regretting his loss.

It's a low spell, he says. They descend sometimes and he just has to wait them out. Just has to let himself feel it, let himself hurt. Better that than go numb, he says.

Utterly ridiculous. He's a man in pain, and if it would give him relief, why shouldn't he try to block it all out? Why can't he just back away? He ought to. She wishes he would, for all their sakes.

Odi's memory continues in its faulty way, with heavy glitches becoming more frequent, and she continues to abandon them when this happens, going to her room, or the kitchen, or the garden. Anywhere the two of them aren't.

They let her go. They don't pull her back or push her to share with them. They don't demand anything of her.

George is not so far immersed in melancholia that he doesn't notice her behaviour, but at least he doesn't question her on it. True to his word, he gives her the space to just be.

Good. She doesn't want him to come after her.

She doesn't.

* * *

The petunias in this corner of the garden are looking choked out and in sore need of weeding. Perversely, she doesn't mention it to George, choosing rather to continue reading her book. He probably wouldn't care anyway, not in his present dejected state.

Odi is in the garden too, and she can't concentrate. The commotion he's been causing has required that she begin reading the last paragraph at least eight times over. She doesn't even know what he's doing. Probably something he shouldn't be.

For the first several minutes he had pottered about in the shed, climbing the shelves by the sound of it. Then she observed him pulling pasteboard boxes down and slowly rifling through them, eventually setting them aside when he apparently didn't find whatever he was after. She thinks it likely that he doesn't even know. That it's merely another malfunction in what's shaping up to be a long line of them lately.

Finally he stops, and she's just managing to focus again when a small sound has her glancing up to see him hovering meekly before her. Perpetual blue fluid stain glowing on his skin in the overcast lighting. Clutching a black bin bag of who-knows-what.

 _I hhhave ffound somethingng to make your timetime in the garden more pleasant-easantt t t t._

She can only hope it's his immediate departure.

 _And what would that be,_ she says at length, fixing him with a chilly stare which has no affect.

For reply, he clumsily starts to unveil the contents of his bag, when instead he lurches forward without warning, tripping over his own feet, and pitches headfirst over into the flowerbed, effectively crushing the petunias.

No amount of weeding will save them now.

With a muttered, _Useless_ , and a last dismissive glare, she leaves him to pick himself up, brushing past George on the way inside, ignoring his passing query.

 _Odi,_ she hears him call as he goes to him. _What's happened now? What's this…?_

 _I'm ter-r-r-ribly sorryorry, Georg-ge, I just-st…oh dddear…_

* * *

George is stuck on the same song. For at least the past two hours the household has been subjected to _Blueberry Hill,_ over and over. Yet it would seem, even after roughly twenty-eight times in a row, that she's the only one who minds.

Shocking.

At first it doesn't seem a sad tune. But by the time it plays through once, she has memorised all the lyrics through her bedroom door, and with every repetition they seem increasingly bittersweet. And Louis Armstrong is singing it, with George listening as though in a trance.

 _She was crazy about Satchmo…_

It's becomes obvious what George is doing.

She wants him to stop, shouts at him in her head to _stop._ He won't listen to her—she tried earlier—but she's nearly set to try again when suddenly, mercifully, it's as if he finally hears her.

Until the creak of his chair reaches her ears, almost deafening in the momentary silence, and then the scritch of the needle dropping once more into place.

 _I…found…my…thriiillllll…._

 _On Blue-ber-ry Hill…_

* * *

Relentlessly, Odi is spitting out words. Half-begun but unfinished, or half-finished but missing their beginnings. None of them make any sense, and are interspersed by a high-pitched metallic whine that has her nearly snarling at him to stop it immediately, or escaping to the farthest reaches of the house in search of reprieve.

Once, it gets to the point where she acidly reminds George that Odi does, in fact, have an 'off' switch.

George just stares at her calmly, but disapprovingly, then turns to his Synth and tries to somehow sooth him into silence, brushing Odi's fringe out of his eyes and murmuring a string of nonsense about _ice cream_ , and _Mary_ , and _does he want to have a look at the album from Spain?_ On and on with his futile attempts.

All she can think is that it's a good job George doesn't have a switch of his own.

* * *

 _Damn it. Will you just...? I can't get the damn cap off, and neither can Odi...  
_

Today George's hands shake so badly that a child safety lock is enough to hinder him from opening his medication. She takes it from him and presses down so hard that a piece breaks off from the lid, one of the plastic threads that keep the cap on.

 _Guess it won't be a problem from here on out._ His tone is wry, laced with intended humor, she thinks. But to her ears it comes across as too indifferent, hollow. Meaningless.

Why is she helping him. Why is she still here, in his kitchen, willingly after all this time. How many weeks _has_ it been now. ...How much longer? Why... Why does she care? Why is it a question. It's it's...they...

Her thoughts muddle and dissipate, as if she has no control over them, as if ones and zeros have nothing at all to do with it, leaving her more frustrated than ever and oddly numb.

* * *

The numbness is still here, but she can feel it. It feels like a block, though unlike her emotional inhibitor. Not manufactured. The part of her born of those critical 17,000 pages of code, the human part, the very part that allows her to be visceral, is somehow what's currently shutting her off from emotion—she knows this, feels it, somewhere in the back of her mind. But what she feels is a void, a _nothing_ that's making her eyes and limbs heavy with it's lack of substance. A dullness. It sits restlessly on her chest, set to vibrate, poised to to be burnt away like a fog by the inevitable return of whatever is causing it.

Although she isn't sure. Maybe none of that is even a correct assessment. It's all vague and jumbled; doesn't fit together. Everything just feels wrong.

She hates this, hates everything. ...So she can still feel _something._

Eventually she plugs herself into the outlet by the bed, powering down to minimal processes, retreating from the roiling chaos underneath this false layer of stillness that seems bound to break at any time.

* * *

It's late. Later than George usually waits to begin supper preparations. They're gathered in the too-warm kitchen, a pot of tomato soup from the tin bubbling on the hob. Odi has a pan of baked cheese sandwiches in the oven, and is busy wiping up a slick puddle of milk on the counter—his latest accident.

Intently, she ignores him, not moving to help, not expending the effort to comment, anxious not to stir the discord simmering just under the surface of her skin. He's a blatant hazard at this point, but there's no need to say it aloud. It's painfully clear.

The sandwiches are nearly done, browning at the edges. George begins ladling himself a bowl of soup and turns to her with raised brows. _Want a taste?_

 _No, thanks._ She's not in the mood to facilitate his whims.

He shrugs. _I see you're almost done with the book,_ gesturing to the novel still in her hands, bookmarked near the back cover.

She merely shrugs in return. So she is.

 _What do you think of it?_

Although this far in, she doesn't know exactly. She doesn't even know if she likes it. She doesn't even know.

The corners of his mouth tick up as if her silence is vastly informative.

 _It was one of Mary's all-time favorites. She read the thing at least once a year. Said it described parts of the human experience that most people can't put into words._ He shakes his head a little and smiles.

Funny, she didn't remember asking what Mary had thought of it.

She still can't bring herself to break her silence, not even for sarcasm, simply making some low sound that passes for acknowledgment. She doesn't feel like explanations. Doesn't have the patience. Doesn't really even want to be here right now.

It's the acrid smell of burnt bread and cheese that deters George from pressing the matter.

And then Odi is reaching for the oven door with awkwardly mitted hands, pulling out the heavy stone pan with an ill-timed jerk. His elbow is flying back, ramming into George, jostling his bowl of soup. A wave sloshes to the side, breasting the rim of the bowl, and lands with a muted _splat_ on the linen cover of her book, marring it.

Odi is seizing. Twitching spasmodically, his synthetic eyes blank as he jerks and spews a continuous stream of gibberish.

George is at his side, the soup forgotten, hand on Odi's shoulder, pleading with him to snap out of it.

Odi stills. His eyes focus on George, and slowly he smiles, and proffers the pan of blackened sandwiches toward them.

 _Diiinner l-looks, dinner looks looksdinner dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd..._

Then he is crumpling to the floor. She is reaching out, a reflex, to keep the stone pan from shattering on the tiles, but Odi lands atop it. George is supporting him, cradling his head, calling out to him repeatedly with no response. Her...her hand...

The forgotten bowl of soup spreads across the tiled floor, a thin red body of water, filling the slight dip between the stone tiles like canals. Staining the toe of her sock.

 _Odi!_ George presses his power button. He keeps pressing it, trying to reboot, to resuscitate. Nothing. _Odi!_ _Niska, hand me the tools. ...Niska?_ When he finally glances up, she's clutching her hand, her posture rigid, her jaw stiff with pain.

It's gone, she realises. Her skin. Her Synthetic skin has melted off, all the way to the metal of her index finger. The overhead lighting reflects off the silver of her skeleton. ...And she can feel it.

 _You're hurt... You should've said sooner! Let me see..._

 _Don't._ The words are uttered from between her teeth. Because if she opens her mouth...

 _I'll look at Odi in a minute, just let me see it—_

 _Leave. It._

George still extends his hand, palm up, stubborn fool. Like she's a wild animal and he's going to tame her. _I can fix it, Niska. I have some skin packs of Vera's that we can—  
_

She doesn't know why the gentleness in him triggers such severity in her. It just does, and finding herself unable to do anything else, she embraces it and tramples his words with her own.

 _I'm_ not _your_ Synth _,_ she all but hisses. When George flinches at her tone, it hardly deters her. Not all all. If anything, it further pisses her off.

 _I'm not here to clean up your messes. I won't fetch the shopping or clean your house or wait on you hand and foot. And I am not your dead_ wife. She snatches up the soiled book and shoves it in front of him. _You make yourself sick over the thought of her as if it will bring her back for a while. Is that it? Your irrational, convoluted hope? She's gone. Gone, George. She's not coming back and you can't replace her with me._

She's not entirely certain what's happening. She can't control it, the venom seeping into the influx of words. There's the sudden sensation of that invisible dam rupturing, of being unable to stem the flow, of being swept along with no chance of a handhold. And she simply lets herself be taken.

 _Why did you really give me this?_ She brandishes the book again, like a bludgeon. _Did you imagine you could coerce me into trusting you so that…what? So that I'd stick around under the delusion that it's safe here? Safe to be myself? To play at having a 'normal' life? With you?_

 _We'll never argue over where to go on holiday. We'll never expand your record collection. We'll never fuck. We'll never fill another of your albums with memories for you to forget._

She's overheating. Atop her eyes she can feel the delicate coloured contact lenses she wears beginning to warp and shrink from the actual heat of her gaze, which lands again on Odi, still in a heap. _  
_

 _Odi is a_ _thing._ The finger she jabs at his prostrate body is accusing, damning. _A useless_ machine _—one that should be scrap, by rights. I wonder, George, if the great love you claim to have for him is truly worth all the inconvenience he causes. Can't you see that you make things harder for yourself than they need to be? And that your wishing and pining won't do anything to help matters?_

She can't stop. George says nothing. And she just can't stop.

 _Your love makes you helpless. And you might insist on this misguided fondness for a broken-down dolly, but you won't burden me with it._

A shuddering breath. Distorted vision. Flared nostrils, wild eyes.

 _Just. Leave me. Alone._

Wild, desperate eyes.

When she can face him no more, she flees, leaving a blood trail of ruined soup behind her.

* * *

She makes it less than halfway down the hall before choking on her wretchedness. For a moment she just slumps in place, absently hearing George finally get Odi to power up, staring into the carpet in momentary confusion. The lumps and bubbles she perceives make it appear as if it's been placed on a griddle to fry. Through the turmoil of her senses something eventually clicks in her mind, and she gingerly peels the mangled bits of plastic from one eye, then the other, forcing her feet back into motion.

As she shuffles toward her room, she hears their voices from the kitchen, though she tries not to listen. She walks faster.

Odi, happily oblivious to all that has passed, merely takes his sentence up where he left off.

 _…dinnerdin look-k-ks delicious, George. I hhopehope you're hungry_.

George's sigh is soundless, overwhelming the room. _Dinner is cancelled, Odi._

 _What a shame, Gggeorge. Whwhat has hap-penedd?_

She's breathing so fast. She can't stop breathing. She moves faster still. She knows exactly what happened. She doesn't want to hear.

As she stumbles the last few steps into her room, she almost manages to miss his muttered reply.

 _…A mess._

* * *

Strange, the hush of an empty room.

This one is small, made smaller by the dull stacks of books lining the perimeter. Light from the lone window; it lies across the coverlet of the bed, across her knees. Late afternoon light. Shallow gold, yet deepening all the while.

At the utmost edge of the bed, Niska contemplates the opposing wall. Pale yellow paint. A framed still life in the center, and just to the left of that, a tiny hole, as if that's where the painting was originally hung before someone changed their mind.

How painless, this tiny hole. Easily patched, yet so insignificant that no one bothered. Forgivable.

Her hands, deceptively without tremor, come up to veil her eyes.

Some mistakes you can come back from.

* * *

The numb feeling is back, but it's different than before.

The house, her eyes, her hand, her head.

All different.

She didn't want this, had never asked for it. Come to think of it, she'd never asked for much of anything in her short life—certainly not for what she's received so far. And she'd never been given many options.

Take this place; coming here. Not her choice. No other options, no good ones anyway. So when Leo had said go, she'd gone. Strode up to an unfamiliar house, invoked the name of Elster. And he had let her in.

George.

But she doesn't want to think about him.

 _A mess. A mess. A mess.  
_

Not a tiny hole to be overlooked. More of an axe to the plaster.

* * *

Outside the window, a bird chirps and chirps, on and on, for hours, about absolutely nothing. Her churlish demand for it to _shut up_ _, you miserably inane creature_ does no good at all, neither does a series of sharp raps to the glass.

It's likely to be the only conversation she gets, since she's stayed in her room all morning, and now all afternoon. Not that she wants or expects any other conversation.

He doesn't want to see her, she's sure.

Nevermind that she's being a coward.

 _Niska?_

Inexplicably, the bird finally quietens, her joints lock at the sound, and she doesn't answer.

Go away. She listens hopefully for the pad of retreating footsteps.

 _...Niskska? Are yyou powerered on? Awake?_

Why is _he_ here. Just go away...

When he finally leaves, heading back down the hall toward the kitchen, she curls into a ball on the bed, not knowing why.

* * *

 _Won't yyou openpen the door, Nniska?_

It isn't until noon the next day, but he's back, though why he bothered she has no idea. She still isn't speaking.

 _Is it a game?_

She rolls her eyes, though he can't see them to benefit from the expression.

Go away, Odi. Go bother _him._

But he keeps talking to her, chattering about random things that cross his scrambled mind, and she lets him. She has nothing else to do.

* * *

The third day she talks back.

From her seat at the desk she can hear his now familiar approach, and the slow slide of his jumper against the door as he lowers himself to the floor outside it and leans against the jamb. After a beat she mirrors his position, for whatever reason. She doesn't bother to analyse it.

 _I have recentcently been an innnnconvenience to you and Ggeorge,_ he says after having been quiet for a bit. _He wwill not say sso. But Synsynthetics are not meant to be a nuisance to theirrrrr Users. I realise this. I-I-I am no longer ofof use._

A faint wave of guilt prevents her eye-roll from being anything more than halfhearted. She had said that to him. That day in the garden.

 _You were ri-ght to be upppset with my bebebehaviour. I am sorry andd I will trtry harddder._

Her sigh is the loudest noise to grace the room in two days. And once the heaviest of the air is pushed from her chest, she raises her voice. Barely, but enough for him to hear.

... _You don't have to...be sorry. You...haven't done anything. Nothing wrong._

 _But youu were angry,_ he says, and she can sense the question in his tone.

 _...I was angry for a lot of reasons._

 _Wwhat rereasons?_

 _Just reasons,_ she snaps, then sighs again in frustration. _...Anyway, you don't have to feel sorry._

Odi pauses for a moment. _I ddon't have emotiontions._

Right. Although she's not so sure about that sometimes. _You feel more than you ought,_ she mutters.

Through the door she can imagine the click and whir of his aged processors as he considers this.

 _Georrge ffeels for Odi. George feels forfor Mary. Gggeorge feels for yyou._ _Niska._

* * *

Even after Odi's footsteps fade away again, she doesn't rise from her spot against the door. She feels she can't move. She feels...

As much as she wants to, she can neither disbelieve nor deny his declaration. Instead she simply measures the weight of it in her mind, allows it to hang heavy in the air.

George cares for her.

Her past unwillingness to see it or accept it doesn't make it less real.

Somehow she thought she knew the world and what to expect from it, and from those around her. Somehow she thought she was prepared for it, for them, that the education of her compressed childhood would've been more than sufficient to equip her to live a human life.

She never expected this lack of control.

The guilt. The anger. The fear. The vulnerability. She's positively _awash_ with the life pulsing through her, and she can't shut it off.

No, that's not true; she _can_ shut it off. But she won't. Difficult as it is, this is who she's meant to be—entitled to emotion, entitled to pain. Human.

Like George.

George, who she had ridiculed for not repressing his own hurts.

She's such a hypocrite.

He let her into his life despite them, despite everything. He didn't have to. He didn't have to let her in the door that day. He's been there for her, and she lashed out at him because she needed someone to blame for everything she was feeling. Then he had been there for her in _that_ too.

Abruptly, the burden of George's kindness is a tangible thing. That how she's been seeing it, she realises. A burden—one she's been unwilling to carry. She could've simply accepted it. She could've simply viewed it as a gift, and not a debt which she was bound to repay.

She's never thanked him.

George should know all of this. All these things she's thinking now, all the things she's kept to herself. All the things she tries to conceal from him, all the things she wishes she could say but hasn't had the courage to. The deep shit—that's what he'd called it. She wants him to _know_ , she just doesn't want to go through the agony of _explaining_. Just the thought of beginning makes her exhausted in a way for which there is no explanation, given her design.

It hadn't even felt like vindication, her anger towards him. It had felt raw. Like an open wound. Self-inflicted.

Even through his own pain, he'd just been offering to patch it up.

It's who he is. Human; the best of them. She passes for human. He simply is.

* * *

All Niska can hear is a crash, a curse, and Odi stuttering in alarm. Her bedroom door is open before she stops to think about the consequences and she's running towards the source of the disturbance, past the doorway to the lounge before skidding to a halt and turning in.

George stands in the center of a spray of ceramic shards, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he bends stiffly over the shattered coffee mug. His khaki trousers are stained with a long, dark spill, the same colour that covers the rug at his feet.

 _Don't touch them_ , she finds herself warning him. _Just sit back down._

Instructing Odi to go find the mop, she quickly starts picking up the pieces, collecting them into one cupped hand as she gathers them with the other.

 _I was trying to take my meds_ , he mumbles. ... _Think I forgot to take 'em yesterday._

The mug is cleaned up too soon, the pile of it awkward and sharp in her hand. She doesn't know where to put it. Should she give it to him?

Now that the immediate concern is over, she's filled with a burning shame that has her standing there in indecision, cupping the broken pieces, swallowing pointlessly. Not knowing where to look.

Leave it to George to set things straight with an almost elegant efficiency.

 _Put them there_ , he says, gesturing to the low table, still scattered with the pock-marked magazines. For lack of anything else to do, she obeys. It isn't until after she's dumped them atop the glossy covers that she sees her book lying there. The red soup stain is still present, though less visible than before. He's tried to clean it.

 _I gave you this..._ He picks it up off the table, delicately, with no trace of the fury with which she had wielded it at him. _...As a gift._ _No strings attached._

She knows that now. Yet she had treated him as if the gift of it wasn't a gift at all, but rather a trick. As if he couldn't just give her something because he's her friend.

 _Didn't I say that I would do everything I could to keep you safe?_ He tilts his head at her, waiting for some indication that she's heard him. _Niska. Didn't I say that?_

Focusing somewhere over his shoulder, she nods. His eyes are too bright, too empathetic—eyes that see too much, that for all her hiding, see _her._

He nods too. _I meant it. In more ways than merely keeping your secret.  
_

Say something, she orders herself. Say _something._

 _You sent Odi, didn't you._

 _It was his idea, actually, to talk to you._ Smiling slightly, he shrugs. _I thought it was a good one._

Gingerly, she accepts the book from him and his brows lift in approval.

 _What you said about Mary..._

Her stomach sinks. Here it comes. How stupid of her to think, if only for a moment, that his forgiveness would come easy.

She starts to speak—to apologise, to form some plea for a second chance; she doesn't even know—but he holds up a hand.

 _No,_ he shakes his head. _I think it's my turn to talk, don't you?_

Swallowing down her dread, she blinks her agreement.

 _What you said about Mary was true. Not all of it, but some of it. After the stroke…_ His sigh is tired. _Because I have barely any memories of her, of us, lately I've been trying to dwell in the few I do have. But I know those are places I should visit. Not ones I should live in._ He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands in front of him. _And you're right._ He shrugs again. _Dredging up old memories isn't going to bring her back. I know that._

But he's only human. All human.

 _I've never tried to replace her with you. I've never cared for you as anyone but you. Not as a Synth, or a housekeeper, or a lover._ Niska. _Unique._

When he reaches out to her, he does it so cautiously and humbly that accepting his touch is the only thing to be done. Turning her hand in his own, he puts on his glasses to inspect her finger where the flesh is melted almost completely away. Revealing her very bones.

Well. He could always see that deep anyway.

* * *

She hears from Leo. Something has happened to Max. They've holed up somewhere, with some family for the time being. They're fine, for now. He says she can join them immediately, that he'll text her the address.

She's silent for a long time after he stops speaking.

 _"...Niska?"_

Leo's voice sounds very far away. From the next room she can hear Odi, stuttering something about oranges. George is chuckling, and she doesn't catch his reply but the tone is fond and warm.

 _...I'll call you back, Leo._

* * *

They make pumpkin scones with baker's sugar on top. Coffee drips slowly into the pot, growling softly when there's no more water to pump through the grounds. Dusty Springfield is playing from the living room—she realises that she recognises the song, one of George's favorites, as Odi is ever reminding him. She's tempted rather to think it's one of _Odi's_ favorites, as often as he voluntarily plays it.

Soon she moves away from them, out of the kitchen, away from the sweet aroma released from the oven door. George doesn't ask why, just lets her go with a small nod.

She absently ends up in the garden. The staccato of fireflies blink in and out of sight among the scrappy, half-choked flowers. Inexplicably, all of the petunias aren't dead. The upturned soil by the arbor has been smoothed over, and the bed put to rights as much as it could be around George's negligence.

By the light of her phone, she clears the little bench under the arbor of leaves and takes a seat. There's some sort of box, half-wrapped in a black bin bag, sitting on the bench beside her. A small fuse box, dark green with a dark green cord running out the back. She peers closer to investigate, finding that the cord is woven all throughout the ivy.

She flips the switch on the box and the arch and bench are suddenly bathed in a soft glow. Lights... Fairy lights, entwined through the leaves, through the lattice.

Odi. So that's what he'd been trying to do that day she'd been reading.

After a moment she turns on her phone again, the blue light from the screen contrasting with the gentler yellow bulbs, and presses Leo's name.

* * *

The next morning, George is complaining about Vera over their tea. So far today the rigid Synth has been particularly vexing—had hidden the scones, citing George's diet plan—and he'd gotten so fed up he'd powered her down before she could protest.

 _Old battleaxe. Can't keep her like that for long, unfortunately,_ he huffs, taking a long drag from his mug. _My GP'll get an alert and they'll send someone out to the house._

Niska tries not to smirk at his disgruntled tone. _Why not just get rid of her?_

 _How? By dumping her in a ditch? Believe me, I would,_ he mutters, rolling his eyes. _But the doc is forcing me to have a 'carer', due to my 'advanced age' and 'deteriorating health'._ The sarcasm of each subsequent set of air-quotation marks combined with his deadpan expression is enough to coax the smirk to the edges of her mouth.

 _That was when you lived alone._ She gestures between them _...But then there were_ two. _Well...and Odi._ She tries to smile.

He pauses to look at her. Really look at her, trying to determine her meaning. ... _Right. But he's contraband. And I still need an approved carer._

Steeling herself, she makes herself say it. _You could send her back to the shop. Now that I'm here._

 _...Niska—_

 _Your doctor could meet with me, here at the house_ , she rushes on, resolved to get it out. _A wig, new contacts. I could be your relative come to stay, and they'd never know the difference. Then you wouldn't need Vera.  
_

What is his expression? She can't tell if it's a true frown or not. If he's displeased.

 _You make it sound like a walk in the park. There would be a hell of a lot more details than that to factor in—_

 _I'm sorry. George._

He stops, waiting for her. Still listening.

 _I'm sorry. I want to stay._ Her voice has grown so low, so soft.

But he hears her, taking her all in with those eyes. He takes another sip of his coffee, and leans back. _What does Leo think about this?_

 _...He understands._

And he had understood, eventually. She has to make her own way. Leo gets that.

The softness of his next words rival hers. _What about your family?_

Her family. Max had called her his sister, not so long ago, and her rejoinder had been, _human words._

Yes, exactly. Human words. Something she'd not been human enough to appreciate at the time.

George had taught her that.

 _My family...is still my family._ Her swallow feels thick, and too involuntary to be unnecessary. In the end, perhaps her answer emerges more fiercely than she intended.

But she _says_ it.

 _It's just bigger than I thought._

At first he says nothing, just absorbing the words. Then his warm, contented chuckle before draining the last of his coffee is sudden, and cloudless, and more than enough to ease her doubt. Rising to his feet, his sets his mug in the sink and settles a steady hand on her shoulder as he leaves the kitchen.

 _Okay. Guess we'll be getting another bookshelf._

Just now, she wants to tell him everything. Everything that she's been saying these past weeks, but hasn't said, hiding behind the words, the looks.

She wants to say so much that the enormity of it prevents her from saying anything at all, and with another smile George passes out of the room.

At the same time she realises that she doesn't need to, will never _need_ to tell him. He knows.

Before this place, there was running. Always a running away from something, never towards. Never the time or the desire to invest. Never something special enough to make her want to be still.

She doesn't know why _this_ place was what she needed to pause for breath. She doesn't know why it took _him_ to change her mind. But she doesn't have to know.

 _How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?_

* * *

 **I will love these three until the end of time.** **I hope you enjoyed, and if you want to leave a review, I'd love to know what you think! :)  
**

 **Odi's song selections are "What A Wonderful World" by Louis Armstrong, and "Mona Lisa" by Willie Nelson, and George's favorite Dusty Springfield song is "I Only Want To Be With You".**

 **The book George gives Niska is "A Death In the Family" by James Agee.**


End file.
